Lumber from the Box Attic
by Qalam
Summary: Just a collection of all those odd bits and pieces that aren't quite long enough to post alone - but refuse to go unpenned. Updates will most likely be unpredictable :) Gen. UPDATE - This chapter: A piece of poetry, from Watson's POV.
1. Chapter 1

**Set pre-FINA, no warnings really. Enjoy! :)**

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A crash. Two people in a hansom that had been careered into by a second, just outside 221B Baker Street.

The two residents stared at the scene from the living room window in momentary dumbfounded shock and then swiftly hurried outside to see whether they could be of assistance.

The second hansom was nowhere to be seen, but the first was still there, the panicked horses being calmed by some of the more practical members of the gathering crowd.

Between then, the two friends managed to wade their way through them, one's clear cry of _'Let me through please, I'm a doctor!'_ coupled with the other's aloof countenance granting them way.

The doctor set about his work in checking the victims over, as his sharp-eyed companion scrutinised the scene. His eyes flickered over the two passengers; middle-aged, and almost unsettlingly similar to himself and his companion in physical appearance, height and build.

Shaking his head with disbelief, the doctor stood with a wince to face his companion. "Mercifully, neither of these two gentlemen have sustained more than a few cuts and bruises. I daresay the shock of this will be..." the doctor tailed off as he realised the taller man's attention was clearly elsewhere, though he did not seem particularly perturbed at the fact; or annoyed for that matter.

The grey gaze was focused upon the driver. Or at least, where the driver should have been seated, for there was no sign of the fellow.

Instead, a souvenir took his place. A black envelope, with a red wax seal, emblazoned with an 'M'.

"Moriarty." The utterance was quiet and after exchanging a brief glance, the two men retreated to the hallway of their apartment as the taller of them studied the envelope as if it were imparting some precious wisdom to him. The other waited patiently; evidently accustomed to this behaviour, that to a bystander, would no doubt have seemed decidedly strange.

Finally, pale, nervous fingers teased the envelope open and both men peered inside expectantly. Confused glances were exchanged before the contents were tipped out onto a stain-mottled palm.

"Garlic," the doctor observed, brow furrowed - there was no mistaking the pungent smell.

"A _crushed_ clove of garlic to be precise," his companion added quietly. "It appears the Professor is trying to convey a message."

The atmosphere surrounding them was sinister for the length of a heartbeat, until a devil-may-care grin spread over the face of the fair-haired doctor.

"A telegram would've sufficed."

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**Please leave your thoughts in a review! =)**

**~ Qalam**

**P.S. I have no idea why it's garlic in the envelope instead of, say, a tomato, but sometimes, details like that just seem to fill themselves in, whether I like it or not. xD**


	2. Recap

**My first 221b! The credit for the structure goes to KCS, if I am not very much mistaken, so many thanks to her for coming up with such a brilliant idea! :)**

**Usual disclaimers apply.**

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**Watson's POV**

I walked into the sitting room and found Lestrade and Holmes in the middle of an energetic discussion-bordering-on-argument. Both looked up upon my entry, and I nodded to them before making my way upstairs.

It was not uncommon for Lestrade to come around to 221b Baker Street. Indeed, he often came for purely social reasons, though with Holmes around, conversation often turned to his work though he did not seem to mind. The sharp-eyed Inspector had become a very close friend.

Once I made my way back downstairs, Holmes waved me into my armchair absent-mindedly, curled as he was into his own, with that cloudy, introspective look I knew so well in his eyes.

I gave Lestrade an enquiring glance, but before he had a chance to say anything except, "Well, Doctor - ", Holmes shot to his feet with a cry, almost knocking over his armchair in exuberance. "Of course!" he crowed.

We hurried after him as he sped downstairs, piling into the cab with shoes, hats and coats awry.

I was extremely befuddled as Holmes launched into an explanation, having no idea of the case. Lestrade glanced at me, and stifled a grin.

"Holmes," he interjected, waving his arms to get his attention.

Holmes stopped, looking rather petulant. "What?"

"Perhaps you should recap; I think you've lost your Boswell."

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**Please review!**

**~ Qalam**


	3. A Treatise Upon Biscuit Preferences

**This titbit was inspired by a conversation I had a while ago with a friend, and although it's a little - abstract? - upon rediscovery, I found it amusing, if nothing else - so I thought I'd share it. =)**

**Standard disclaimers apply.**

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_**A Treatise upon Biscuit Preferences and their Relation to Personality Type: By Miss Whittard.**_

_Upon contemplation, and after a discussion with some of my family members concerning their preferred biscuits, I found that there was a direct correlation between the type of biscuit preferred by a person, and certain personality traits of said person._

_For example, I myself am quite an empathetic character and am, I confess, easily moved to tears. My favourite type of biscuit is a gooey, soft, chocolate cookie which reflects this aspect of my character quite well._

_Another case I can present is that of a friend with whom I was discussing this idea. She too found her favourite biscuit; of an oaty kind, with a layer of chocolate summarised her own character quite succinctly (tough but with a sweet side). Incidentally, it was she who suggested to me the idea of writing this treatise. But I digress._

_An astute reader will no doubt reserve some level of scepticism about my suggestions, but beware; a closed mind is a most dangerous thing. If you happen to have a moment or two to spare, and ask your acquaintances of their preferences, you will (in most cases) see a direct correlation between these two variables._

_In the following discussion, I will endeavour to..._

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Holmes stopped reading, and frowned as he considered the relationship that Miss - he looked back at the article - Whittard had outlined.

"A particularly thought-provoking article, eh Holmes?" Watson broke in on his companion's thoughts with an air of nonchalance.

The detective appeared to not have heard, and realising with a sigh that his foray into the realm of deduction had gone unnoticed, Watson leaned across the table, and clicked his fingers before his friend's face.

Holmes blinked, and stared at the fingers in front of his eyes confusedly, before coming back to reality with a start.

"What? Yes, yes, rather an interesting treatise...The incredible thing is though, that upon consideration, I too think it is rather _remarkable_ the reflection such a preference can have..."

Watson looked sceptical. "Really Holmes?"

"Let us, _par exemple_," Holmes said, with a characteristic flick of his hand, "take brother Mycroft. His favourite biscuits are shortbread. You must admit Watson, that there is a marked resemblance between; as fantastic as it sounds, that type of biscuit and Mycroft."

A thoughtful look passed across the doctor's face. "What if we take someone else, say - " At that instant there was a knock upon the door, and Holmes and Watson looked at each other. "Lestrade!" Was the simultaneous utterance.

Barely had Lestrade put a foot in the door than Holmes asked of him, as if it were a perfectly _usual_ conversation starter, "What is your favourite biscuit?"

The Inspector didn't even bat an eyelid, acclimatised as he had become to the detective's eccentricities. "Good morning to you too," he said dryly, with a nod in Watson's direction. "It's fruit shortcakes actually Holmes, for all the importance it may bear."

But said man had already turned back to Watson with a grin. "See? Quite amiable though with bursts of acidity. He _is_ however, one currant short of a pack most of the time," Holmes said, and proceeded to keel over with laughter at his own joke, leaving - _comme d'habitude _- his long suffering friend to explain.

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**I'm not a native French speaker; indeed, my French is fairly pitiful, so if you see any mistakes in the phrases, be sure to point them out! But to the best of my knowledge, this is what they mean:**

_par exemple_ - for example

_comme d'habitude_ - as usual

**Let me know what you think!**

**~ Qalam**


	4. Excursion

**In this, I discover how fun angry!Watson is to write, and Holmes gets a telling-off.**

**Standard disclaimers.**

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"Well," Holmes smiled happily. "That was quite the excursion, eh Watson?"

The detective was oblivious to the death glare he received from the ex-army surgeon, otherwise it would have surely halted him in his tracks. As it was, Holmes carried on chattering.

_"Holmes,"_ the doctor interjected sharply into his friend's ruminations, "I am cold, covered in mud, soaking wet, and have almost had my leg chewed off by a rabid mutt. This is not the first time that such a thing has occurred; in the line of duty, I could accept it. However, the sole reason I am in such a state is that _you_ blundered blindly into the wrong garden, walked into a metal railing, thus stirring the dog, and then, to top it all off, proceeded to knock me over in your attempt to escape from the darned thing!" Watson's voice has grown progressively higher in pitch, and Holmes looked slightly alarmed as the diatribe continued. "And somehow, to add insult to the injury, you manage to look as if you have merely been caught in an untimely shower, whereas I..._I..."_ Watson looked despairingly at his tattered trousers, hair plastered to his forehead. A small puddle of murky water had formed at his sock-clad feet, which squelched as he walked. "And now you have the _gall_ to call this an excursion? Well, you listen to me, my _dear_ Holmes! I am going to get changed, sit before the fire, and consume copious amounts of tea - and if you make so much as a passing comment about this case, I will not be responsible for my actions and/or any injury you may sustain."

Holmes' grey eyes were wide as he reached for his magnifying glass as a child would reach for a favourite blanket. "Yes Watson," he murmured meekly.

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**Please leave a review!**

**~ Qalam**


	5. Sometimes

**Um, so this is the first piece of poetry I've ever posted, and I don't mind telling you, I'm nervous! *hides***

**It's from Watson's POV.**

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I write by candlelight

Sometimes, when the nightmares won't go away.

The scratching of pen upon paper fills the

Empty haunting silence that crashes down,

A suffocation, wave crushing a lonely

Broken ship.

Until the familiar long-limbed figure arrives,

Asking no questions, telling no lies,

Just being.

And filling the empty silence

Somehow

Without a single uttered word.

I wrote by candlelight

Sometimes.

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**Review please!**

**~ Qalam**


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